


i could lie (say i like it like that)

by frnndtorres



Series: my love is yours (if you're willing to take it) [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: I'D SAY toxic relationship, Kissing, M/M, Rough Kissing, but yknow whatever rocks your boat, i'm kidding kids don't get involved in something like this, let's see, lol, okay, there's really not a lot of plot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnndtorres/pseuds/frnndtorres
Summary: Sometimes Charles thought Max hated him. Sometimes he was sure of it.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Series: my love is yours (if you're willing to take it) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780834
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	i could lie (say i like it like that)

**Author's Note:**

> okay i am BACK ON MY BULLSHIT. enjoy!
> 
> (title taken from: _when the party's over_ by Billie Eilish)

Sometimes Charles thought Max hated him. Sometimes he was sure of it.

“…with Max Verstappen?”

Charles’s head snapped up, immediately regretting it, because surely one of the couple dozens journalists staring at him and waiting anxiously for him to answer –  for him to make a mistake – would notice that, even though he’s usually slow at answering, he reacted fairly quick to a question about one of his fellow drivers, and his supposed sworn enemy at that.

But it’s not like anyone knew. How could they, really? At this point, Charles himself wasn’t sure of what had been going on with Max these last couple of years. Sometimes he even went as far as to wonder if it was ever real, because judging by the way Max ignored him (on a good day. On bad days he was at the receiving end of heartless violence. Or were those the good days?) he couldn’t be sure he even remembered. If there even was something to remember.

To his credit, though, he still was pretty slow to answer. There were a million thoughts running through his head, threatening to spill right out of his mouth, but he was Charles fucking Leclerc, master of conceiving his feelings and choosing his words right. If not for the last couple years of endless hours of media training (because there are some things even a F1 driver can’t say), then life had made pretty sure to straighten him up from a young age, throwing tragedy after tragedy his way, making sure that Charles _knew_ , like a robot, when to smile, when to be stoic, when to chuckle, when to diffuse the tension.

But when it came to Max.

Well.

His press officer was looking at him, slight exasperation on her face.

Charles cleared his throat, suddenly very dry, and he could feel Daniel’s hand squeezing his knee under the table.

“Sorry.” He smiled that choir boy smile everyone seemed to eat right up. “Could you repeat the question?”

He was sure that, had it been anyone else (maybe not Daniel), the journalists would’ve been offended, annoyed at the least, but not with him, oh no, being Boy Wonder had it’s perks and so the guy repeated his question with a kind smile and something resembling awe in his eyes.

“What happened out there, with Max?”

And here’s the thing, Charles knew the answer to this question; the real one and the one his press officer wanted him to give. He wanted to be a _good boy_ and please everyone and answer something that would satisfy all of them; not completely, for sure, because these journalists were out for blood, they always were, but he could try. (O _h, you know, this things happen, specially on this track_ … _It’s just a healthy rivalry, we’ve been competing for a while now_ … _It was an honest mistake,_ my _mistake…)_

He _could_ use any of those, really, but–

“You know Max has a temper.”

Throw in a nonchalant smile and they were all laughing. Daniel made a joke and that was it. He _pleased_ them. His job was done.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you, _Charles_?”

Now, Charles understood when people mispronounced his name and he usually didn’t mind because, well, what the hell, he didn’t expect everyone to know the exact Monégasque way of saying it, didn’t expect everyone to actually _care_. But goddamnit. Max Verstappen _knew_. He knew damn well. Charles had heard him moan it and scream it, whisper it and pant it. _Sharl_ , with a slight drawl at the end. Not Charles, as if he was a fucking brit.

Once again, Charles schooled his face into its normal, passive state and turned around. Facing him.

He had memorized Max’s every reaction, really, enough to know he was pissed. Not “I was very calm” after Esteban screwed his race pissed. But pissed nonetheless. Not that Charles really gave a fuck. (Except he totally did).

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A little shrug at the end. Simple, curt.

Max’s face remained its usual scowl, but he laughed sarcastically and sickly-sweet before speaking, “Stop talking shit about me in your interviews.”

And if he was _any_ smarter, he would let it go. Like the _good boy_ everyone around him believe he was. But, well, Charles Leclerc was an amazing driver, had a killer jawline, could speak three languages _and_ could play the piano, but “smart” isn’t really a word he would add to that list.

“It’s not like I was lying.”

Charles’s breath left him all at once, his head hitting the wall behind him with force, but pain was something he was used to, by his hand or someone else’s. Max had him pinned against the closed door of his motorhome, a strong thigh between his own, one hand around his throat, the other splayed possessively across his ribcage, and Charles thought that maybe he was searching for where his heart was frantically beating, so he could rip it out of him, but Max had done that a long time ago.

“You’re a fucking brat, Leclerc.” Sharp tone and sharp teeth. That’s all Max had ever been towards him; sharp. Cold. (Or maybe not always, but he wasn’t about to go down that road).

“Well, you’re-” And then the fingers around his throat tightened, making it almost impossible to breath, choking on his words, painful and rough. “A fucking asshole.”

Max’s face appeared in his blurred line of vision, corners getting dark from the lack of oxygen, but he could still see it, the smirk, all sharp teeth with a wicked pull of the lips.

They stared for a few seconds, harsh breaths hitting the other’s lips. Max’s eyes had the same intensity they get when he’s behind a wheel, the same blue wildfire that lights up every time a challenge comes his way, and Charles thinks it’s fitting, because that’s what he was to him, wasn’t he? A challenge. He remembered all those months ago, when their relationship changed, when they both did, and Max had told him, _One of this days I’m gonna get you on your knees, Leclerc, and you’re gonna be begging for it and I’ll get bragging rights for fucking the paddock’s golden boy_. Venom dripping from every syllable and sometimes Charles thought he hated him. Sometimes he was sure of it.

“Look at yourself, Charles.” His tone was mean and mocking, aiming to hurt and Max did always have a perfect aim. “Don’t you get tired of having someone’s hand around your throat?” and then he dove right in. Sharp teeth dragging across his full lips and sharper tongue claiming him with such fervor and such little room for a fight that Charles wondered if Max didn’t know he was his already.

Truth is, Charles _was_ tired of having someone’s hand around his throat, but he was more tired of having Max’s around his heart.


End file.
